


stalemate

by skatingsplits



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon-Compliant Misogyny, F/M, Satan made me write it, mild bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-21 09:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16573847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: A decades-long game of something a little more interesting than chess.





	1. first move

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to post this as one very long oneshot but actually, I think it makes far more sense as chapters (and it'll stop me going over the first sections over and over while I ignore the fact that I don't have an ending yet)

 

Zelda's still a student, technically, but she'd stopped attending classes a while ago, when teachers were no longer able to answer her questions and she found she was spending most lessons bored out of her skull being lectured about things she'd been an expert on at sixteen. Requests for a private tutor had gone completely ignored and she's begun to find fewer and fewer of her fellow students can keep up with her intellectually. If she's not curled up with a forbidden volume in the library, she's in Edward's office; her brother has only recently taken up his teaching position and his study provides a perfect place for Zelda to hide herself away from the other sisters and warlocks who think themselves her peers (and for her to provoke her brother into arguments or give him unwarranted advice on his curriculum). It's the former today; she's very comfortable in Edward's favourite armchair, happily engrossed in Sixteen Syrian Hexes when the door opens and her sanctuary is invaded. Zelda is so deeply absorbed in her book that her instincts aren't quite running at their full capacity and she naturally assumes the intruder is Edward; after all, who else would come in without knocking?

  
‘If you want me to move, you're going to have to make me' she doesn't look up as she speaks; she might be twenty-five but she's perfectly prepared for either a magical or physical tussle with her brother to keep the comfy chair.

  
‘That's an intriguing offer, Miss Spellman’ it isn't Edward. Her head snaps up inhumanly quickly and she slams the book shut. The figure in front of her is shorter and leaner than Edward, is resting on a decoratively carved cane, and is looking at her, as he always does, like she's a piece of prime steak and he's a starving lion.

  
‘Brother Blackwood, please forgive me, I assumed you were my brother' rising from her chair, Zelda tries her best to arrange her expression into her usual display of hauteur. It's not as easy as it should be. Particularly not when she extends her hand and instead of shaking it, Faustus Blackwood drops his head and presses his mouth to the smooth skin. It's perfectly proper but it's absolutely obscene and if that isn't a perfect metaphor for every interaction she has with this man, she doesn't know what is. He's been her brother's mentor for two years, they've met on more occasions than she can count; every time he's been perfectly polite and yet every time, Zelda has come away feeling like she's just gone ten rounds in the boxing ring and been knocked out every time (Edward had taken her to an illegal boxing match in Hoxton the last time they visited England. Zelda loves it). Even now, she can feel her heart rate start to incline and hopes to Lucifer that he can't feel the pulse in her wrist beat beneath his fingers.

  
‘Nothing to forgive, I assure you, Miss Spellman' he straightens up again and there's a look of amusement in his eyes that she wants to eradicate. Her every encounter with this man might leave her a sodden mess (and she's beyond convinced it's deliberate) but she can't figure out if he's having fun at her expense, if he sees her as a toy he can wind up, set off and leave to run out of steam or if it's an opening salvo to something even more intriguing.

  
‘Isn't it time you called me Zelda?’ she sounds arch and ridiculous to her own ears, like a maiden at a debutante's ball. It's been some considerable time since she was a maiden but she almost feels like one again, coy and foolish with anticipation. She can't deny the terrifying possibility that she's made it all up in her head, that her own interest in Faustus Blackwood has fooled her into convincing herself that this drawn-out torture is mutual when in actual fact he thinks of her as nothing more than Edward's younger sister.

  
‘Nothing to forgive, Zelda' his tone is smooth and genial, and she starts remonstrating with herself for getting her imagination run away with her when, instead of releasing her hand, he turns it over and traces a line with one sharp fingernail along the blue vein of her wrist and down to the middle of her palm and she'll be well and truly damned if it isn't the most sensual thing she's ever felt in her life.   
She's never been quite sure why this man in particular sends her home with an ache between her legs every time they meet. He's attractive enough (and praise Satan, his voice is sinful) but their coven is full of attractive witches and warlocks, the vast majority of whom Zelda could take or leave without a second thought. Perhaps part of it is jealousy, wanting what Edward has; she may not be able to get the coven's attention as a witch, so why shouldn't she command it as a woman? But part of it, she knows, is a little less complex. The man is a very powerful warlock, intelligent and learned, and if there's one thing in the world that makes Zelda's head spin, it's power. And part of it is that he really needs to stop looking at her like that or she's going to sink to her knees on her brother's office floor and-

  
‘Faustus, there you are' at the sound of Edward Spellman's voice, Blackwood drops her hand like it's suddenly developed thorns and stung him and Zelda feels a surge of satisfaction. He knows exactly what he's doing, after all. It's her turn to give him an amused glance as she sits back down in Edward's armchair and makes an absolute meal of crossing her legs.

  
‘Brother Blackwood was keeping me entertained' she says very sweetly as Edward drops a stack of books two feet high onto his desk. It's barely even true; they'd hardly exchanged twenty words since he'd arrived but Zelda’s finding herself quite enraptured with this little game. She stands up again to pour over the pile of texts her brother brought in and if she happens to be bending at a slightly suggestive angle, then that's a complete accident. Before she can continue winding her own clockwork toy up, though, Edward spoils her game.

  
‘Zelds, you know you can't hide in here forever' he coats it in sugar but his meaning is clear; get out, the men are talking. Normally she would challenge him to justify to her why on earth she's less able than her male peers to listen to Edward's self-important theological ramblings but today, leaving rather suits her purpose.

  
‘Well, I'll leave you big important men to your big important business’ she purrs, straightening her spine far more languidly than necessary. Although Edward looks puzzled and slightly disgusted by his sister's honey-laden attitude, the look in Faustus Blackwood's eye as she leaves is more than worth his protege’s distaste. It's either a concession that she's won or a promise that this isn't over. Either is fine with her. Zelda has always loved winning but as they say, it's the taking part that counts.

 

 

 


	2. concession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faustus leaves the Spellman house having gotten everything he came for; in this little game of theirs, surely he's holding the winning hand. So why does he feel like someone's changed the rules and forgot to let him know? 

It's never been a secret that this is what he's always wanted. Wearing the robes of the High Priest of the Church of Night, Faustus feels that finally things are as they should be, he's where he should be and from here on in, there'll be no more mistakes. That's all Edward Spellman had been, a mistake and a mistake that's now been rectified. It was a shame, really it was, that he'd had to go to such lengths to get here but Faustus has always been of the view that there's no point in dwelling on the past.

  
The only time he feels even a twinge of regret is when he's in his sixth week of his high priesthood, conducting Back Mass with as much aplomb as if he'd been doing it for years. The Spellman pew is as empty as it's been for the past two months but standing at the back is a black-clad figure he knows very well. It's not surprising that she's here; not even a little family tragedy could keep Zelda Spellman away from the Church of Night. If anything, he's surprised that it's taken her this long but it's still more difficult than it should be to keep his eyes off her.

  
And if the service happens to finish ten minutes or so earlier than usual, it's certainly not because any kind of nervous energy has him talking a little faster or because he can't stop thinking about what might happen at the end of Mass. It's only seemly that he should offer comfort to a member of his congregation who's suffered such a great loss, after all. It's slightly less seemly to make such a beeline for her, perhaps, but Zelda has always been as slippery as snake oil and Faustus would rather appear briefly undignified than risk her disappearing into the night as silently as she'd arrived.  
It's not until he's standing right in front of her that he realises his pulse is jumping in his neck, something that's just exacerbated when he brings her hand to his lips; they may not have done this dance in a while but he remembers how it starts exceptionally well.

  
‘Praise Satan for bringing you back to us, Sister Spellman' he hasn't seen her since he'd been ordained and there's a flicker of excitement in his chest at the thought of how her unwavering devotion to the Dark Lord might extend to his representative on earth.

  
‘Praise him indeed' her voice is soft and neutral and for a woman who can usually be described using extreme adjectives only, neutral doesn't quite suit her. Far from the scintillating push-and-pull he remembers, she speaks to him for a few moments as though they're veritable strangers before slipping out of the door and leaving him feeling just a little guilty. Faustus feels perfectly justified in what he's done to pave the way for his own ambition but it's very unfortunate that it's had the side effect of extinguishing the flame of Zelda's passion.  
What good fortune, then, that his new position gives him licence to try and stoke up those flames again. After all, who else should be inciting devotion in the Dark Lord's supplicants if not his High Priest?

  
It's just over a week later that he endeavours to do just that. If he'd ever doubted that Lucifer was on his side, those doubts are eradicated when he knocks on the door of the Spellman house and the target of his visit answers the door. Her habitual cigarette is in one hand and her rather excellent body is wrapped up in a tightly tailored suit and he almost feels as though nothing has changed until she takes his cloak and the lack of trailing fingers on his back reminds him otherwise.

‘Your Excellency, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ he'd be lying if he said he'd never fantasised about her calling him that. Only, in his fantasies, she'd be saying it with a far less dour look on her face while doing something far more exciting than leading him into the Spellman's dingy parlour.

‘It was actually your sister I came to see, Sister Zelda' someone less well-acquainted with the nuances of her body language wouldn't have picked up on the briefest flare-up of irritation on her face. Pity for her he isn't that someone.

  
‘Of course. I'm afraid my sister isn't here, Father Blackwood, but you're more than welcome to wait for her return' Zelda's voice is chilly and really, her inferiority complex is far too useful.

  
‘No matter, you'll do just as well' The implication that she'd be less than vastly superior to her sister in any situation obviously rankles and she gestures sharply at the armchair next to the fire as she takes a seat opposite it.

  
‘Anything for our new High Priest' she says tartly and it shouldn't turn him on as much as it does. He sits, briefly considers some possible preamble before she arches an impatient eyebrow at him in an echo of the Zelda he's used to and he immediately begins to speak.

  
‘I hate to launch so directly into unpleasant matters, Sister Spellman, but I couldn't help noticing that your sister has not yet seen fit to come back to the Church since...’ he lets it hang in the air for a moment, finding the minuscule twitch of her eyes very appealing ‘I was wondering if there was anything I could do to ease her return?’

  
Zelda takes a long drag of the cigarette in her hand, not meeting his eyes as the wheels of her brain are obviously turning. He waits for her to answer and he's mostly expecting a brush-off, protestations that the Spellmans don't require outside assistance, the immediate erection of defenses he'll have to penetrate. What he's not expecting when she meets his gaze is for those familiar green eyes to be awash with tears.

  
‘My sister has lost her way. She's angry with the Dark Lord for Edward's death, she blames...’ Her voice cracks and she brushes one of the spilled tears away angrily ‘She doesn't seem to realise... I can't seem to make her understand.’  
In an instant he's kneeling in front of her chair, his hand brushing away the tears that have started dropping down her cheek.

  
‘You mustn't blame yourself, Zelda. Your devotion to the Dark Lord has never been anything other than absolute, that's obvious' his voice is low and when his fingers tangle in those soft red waves, her eyes flutter shut. He feels a surge of something that might be triumph.

  
‘He knows you are his most’ he presses his mouth to her temple  
‘Faithful' her cheek  
‘Servant’ the corner of her mouth, just far enough removed from indecency to force her into making the motion to join their mouths together in a hungry kiss. Her hand clasps at the back of his neck and he really hadn't imagined it going this well.

  
Is it wrong, to push her buttons like this? Perhaps it would be foolish of him not to. He's too well-acquainted with her mind and her body to pretend he doesn't know that while she may claim not to need validation from Faustus the man, validation from the High Priest of the Church of Night will have a knock-on effect right between those lovely thighs. He's proved right when within what seems like moments she's removed her dress and is manoeuvring herself on top of him in a very invigorating manner. His hands skate over the soft flesh of her hips as she rests back on his thighs and he's on the verge of making a smart remark about old habits dying hard when she sinks down onto him with a groan and the wind is completely knocked out of his sails.

  
And if there's something too delicious about fucking Edward Spellman's sister in Edward Spellman's house mere weeks after he put Edward Spellman in the ground, well, it genuinely is secondary to the pleasure he feels in her beautiful face and body. He'd always thought of Zelda as wildfire; all too easy to set alight, she'd burn bright and hot for a while before burning out. But now, she feels more like waves crashing over him, engulfing him. Her cries are loud and erotic in the otherwise silent house, she seems to have an endless number of limbs wrapped around him and when she comes and he feels her clench around him, feels rather than hears the moan of his name vibrate through him, he might as well be drowning.

  
When they're done, she has her dress back on and a cigarette in her hand almost insultingly quickly. She doesn't speak, just takes long drags and regards him with an expressionless face as he dresses. He's about to spout something meaningless about the Church's gratitude for her devotion when suddenly she raises a hand to his cheek. Her thumb touches his bottom lip lightly and as he glances in one of the many mirrors Zelda sees fit to surround herself with, he sees what she's doing; while her own lipstick looks relatively untouched, she's left a smear of it on his mouth too. Before she can wipe it away, however, she lets her hand drop and her lips lightly brush over his again until she steps back, opening the parlour door.

  
‘It suits you' she says with a tilt of the head and something that might almost be a smirk on her lips. Faustus leaves the Spellman house having gotten everything he came for; in this little game of theirs, surely he's holding the winning hand. So why does he feel like someone's changed the rules and forgot to let him know? 


	3. a draw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The challenge of ardour-filled glances and discreet caresses has been replaced with the subtle sting of too-polite tête-a-têtes and sly insinuations, both pretending that they've never seen each other gasping and writhing in the throes of Satan-given ecstasy.

  
This really hadn't been what she planned when she asked him to hear her confession. True, the thought of rekindling their... whatever it was, had consumed her since he'd branded her with that searing kiss to the forehead in his office before Sabrina's trial. She'd been positive he was going to do something more than that faux-paternal gesture of affection before her wretched hair had come out in his hand and left her utterly humiliated.

Of course, she couldn’t be sure that he hadn't done that on purpose, deliberately wrongfooted her in a laughable echo of their old game, ruffling her feathers before she took the stand against her niece. But her traitorous body hadn't cared and she'd arrived home desperate with desire. It's been years since she let him get under her skin like this and she hates that he's managed it so swiftly with so little effort. They'd abandoned their to-and-fro long ago, become nothing more than priest and parishioner but for that brief moment she'd thought he'd been tempted. That's why when he'd asked her to deliver his wife's children, she'd been silently furious where she should surely have been honoured. It had been an unpleasant reminder of how boringly different the stakes are between them now; the challenge of ardour-filled glances and discreet caresses has been replaced with the subtle sting of too-polite tête-a-têtes and sly insinuations, both pretending that they've never seen each other gasping and writhing in the throes of Satan-given ecstasy. It was an establishment of their ever-shifting boundaries and that time, she'd left his office fuming.

  
So she really hadn't expected this. Zelda wasn't in the habit of making a fool of herself, she'd have never put the first foot forward; the possible reward was absolutely not worth the risk of rejection. But the second he'd told her to kneel before him, she'd suspected he might be playing this game. It certainly isn't beyond either of them to use his office as High Priest to their advantage and she thinks she's perceptive enough to recognise the difference between his ‘pray for your immortal soul' voice and his ‘'I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name' voice. That had sounded like the latter. And the second he mentions his unwilling abstinence, she's sure. Well, she knows the next move sure enough, lets her lower lip tremble as she meets his burning hot gaze because she knows he likes her vulnerable as much as he likes her fiery.

Before she can even blink, he's on his knees next to her and she's in his arms as easy as breathing, not entirely convinced that she isn't still engrossed in fantasy. But no; her gently weeping on her knees in front of him only to her comforted by his body is more his fantasy than hers and she almost loathes them both for it. Loathes him for wanting her raw and defenceless, loathes herself for giving in so damned easily.

  
Ultimately though, she can't pretend this isn't exactly what she'd wanted for weeks (a lot, lot longer than weeks). It might feel too much like he's winning but when she bites down on his neck, feels the jump of his pulse and the strain of his tendons beneath her tongue and hears him hiss, she'd be more than happy with a draw.

  
It's fast and it's rough and praise Satan it's hot, and Zelda is both unable and unwilling to muffle her moans as the High Priest of the Church of Night fucks her into the carpet in her parlour. She wants to match him stroke for stroke, make sure he knows this is happening because she'd decided it would. She's more than a willing participant, she's a driving force and she will not be halted. Ordinarily she wouldn't be able to come like this, just from the hard press of him inside her, but she can feel herself clenching around him with a sensation she knows very well and she briefly wonders if he's done something, performed some silent spell before deciding she really doesn't care one way or the other. When she comes, she comes hard, her short nails clawing at his back so viciously she feels the skin break beneath her fingers and his name so loud on her lips that the sound reverberates around the room. She brings her bloodied fingertips to her mouth with her eyes locked onto his and the groan he gives is almost as satisfying as her orgasm. The erratic jerking of his hips is a sign she remembers very well and she pulls his head down into a kiss as he comes, feels his eager tongue reaching for the metallic taste and she sighs, victorious.

  
‘I'd forgotten how fervent you can be, Zelda' he says once they've separated and she's stretched out on the floor in nothing but her brassiere, touching a hand to his back and bringing it back with stained fingertips and a very sharp smile on his face.

  
‘Had you?’ She categorically refuses to be embarrassed. Embarrassment is for teenage virgins, most decidedly not for her. Lighting another cigarette, she meets his gaze with steely eyes. She probably should mind the blatant appreciation on his face more than she does, the way he looks like he's still starving for her even though his hunger should have been sated, but it feels like a point on her side of the scoreboard. And Satan knows, she really doesn't want to lose today.

An hour later, she's removed all evidence of anything other than tea being taken here and is sitting back in her chair, absorbed in her book when she hears footsteps on the stairs. Ambrose, she realises, and the blood drains from her face like it's been syringed. There's no time to gather her thoughts before her nephew bounds into the room, a smug smile on his face so wide that Zelda knows it would be fruitless to pretend.

  
‘Have you had a pleasant afternoon, auntie?’ Ambrose's grin is insufferable. Zelda doesn't care about her nephew knowing she isn't a chaste maiden but she could have really done without him actually hearing her getting screwed like a ten-cent whore on the floor of the family parlour.

  
‘Don't be facetious' she snaps. Offense is always the best defence.

  
‘Me? Never. I just thought I'd check because there were such strange noises coming from down here a little while ago, I thought we might have a banshee hiding in the airing cupboard again' Zelda could swear her nephew used to be too afraid of her to tease her so glibly. Before she can further remonstrate with him, though, the front door opens and she can hear Hilda and Sabrina's mindless chatter.

  
‘Not a single word or you'll spend the rest of your life _wishing_ you were cleaning up blood in the mortuary' she points a warning finger at Ambrose and he raises his hands in a gesture of appeasement, smug smile still in place.

  
When she's reflecting later, relishing the slight ache between her legs, Zelda finds that she doesn't really mind Ambrose knowing. She's almost glad that there's a witness to their little game, that she can be really sure it's not the sordid fantasy of an ageing, lonely woman who's rapidly losing control of her life. It's proof that her life isn't just endless days withering away in this house, sniping at her sister and watching her niece grow out of needing her. And for that, Zelda can take all the raised eyebrows and superior smiles in the world.

 


	4. subterfuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this present moment, he's having very great difficulty in resisting Zelda Spellman. She'd appeared just as he began to wrap up his lecture on theistic demonology and silently taken her current place near the doorway, obviously trying to ensure that he doesn't escape before she's confronted him with whatever's turned her face so gorgeously furious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting a dubcon warning on this chapter even though I'm not sure how accurate that description is, just because things are always in a bit of a grey area where magic is concerned.

 

He's always been aroused by angry women. Angry men, less so; anger doesn't suit most men, their faces turn red and their expressions contort in a way Faustus finds unappealing. The anger of a woman, though, is a beautiful thing and a thing he finds it difficult to resist. At this present moment, he's having very great difficulty in resisting Zelda Spellman. She's standing at the back of his classroom with a face like thunder, arms crossed across her chest and her eyes piercing into him even when he manages to avert his gaze and actually look at the students he's teaching. She'd appeared just as he began to wrap up his lecture on theistic demonology and silently taken her current place near the doorway, obviously trying to ensure that he doesn't escape before she's confronted him with whatever's turned her face so gorgeously furious. He'd just quirked an amused eyebrow at her and is trying his very best to not pay her any attention as he finishes his lesson. It's not working well.

  
When his lesson finishes and his students have filed out of the room, most casting curious glances at Zelda that she completely ignores, he finally acknowledges her presence again.

  
‘Zelda, what a nice surprise. To what do I owe this visit?’ his genial manner seems to irritate her further, as he knew it would, and she stalks forward, heels clicking in a staccato rhythm on the stone floor.

  
‘What did you do?’ her voice is a hiss, her eyes are flashing at him like she wants to hex him and it makes his pulse race.

  
‘I'm afraid you're going to have to be a little more specific' he says smoothly, as though he doesn't know exactly what she's talking about.

  
‘You know full well-' she begins and breaks off with a huff, evidently realising that it'll be quicker for her to play along. She glares at him as she tugs the silk scarf around her neck off in one swift move, gesturing to the livid purple mark on the white skin of her throat. ‘This, I'm talking about this! I tried for an hour this morning and I can't make a particle of difference. You've _done something_ and I need you to undo it, now.’

  
She's quite right, of course. The day before, she'd been in his office for some inconsequential administrative reason, a reason that had faded into oblivion when the spicy scent of her perfume had wafted over him. While she'd harped on about some complete non-issue of academia, he'd slid a hand over the silken material of her skirt, fingertips trailing over fabric-covered skin until she'd stopped talking. She'd ridden him hard on the sofa and he'd been so pleased with the mark he'd made that he cast a silent spell on that beautiful throat. That pretty purple bruise wasn't going anywhere until he said so. He'd adored the thought of sophisticated, proper, Zelda Spellman, never normally a hair out of place, being marred with a little piece of him and now she wasn't even giving him time to enjoy it.

  
‘All the effort I went to to give you a present and you don't appreciate it at all' Faustus trails the outline of the mark he's made with one long nail and is disappointed when he doesn't feel her shudder. It's not that Zelda's predictable; far from it, he's never been so continuously surprised as he is in bed with Zelda Spellman. But she does have certain buttons that, when pushed, never fail to elicit certain reactions. Usually even a feather light touch to her throat has her rubbing her thighs together to find some friction but today she remains steadfastly angry.

  
‘I swear to Satan, Faustus, get rid of it before I do something we'll both regret’ he could count on one hand the number of times he's seen Zelda lose her temper and it's never been with him. Sarcastic, often, a little sharp sometimes when she disagrees with him but never full-blown, righteous anger. It's driving him crazy. Her chest is heaving with barely restrained emotion, there's a light sheen of perspiration on her brow, her eyes are steely and her cheeks are flushed and Faustus doesn't think he's ever wanted her more. He'd known his little trick would annoy her but he hadn't thought it would be this much and he doesn't quite understand what's provoked such a reaction.  
Without a doubt, they've debased each other far more than this and she's always so receptive that he can't fathom why merely leaving a love bite on her neck has her in such a rage. He's utterly ruined her before, she's _asked_ him to and- Ahh. Suddenly, his brain clicks into gear and he smiles, wide and hungry. There we are. She's ashamed, she doesn't want the reminder of what they do in the dark when she's out in the light. Perhaps she's worried that her precious Sabrina will see her mark and the full extent of Beloved Aunt Zelda's filthy proclivities will tumble out in the open for all to see. Faustus is heartily surprised to learn that Zelda has a bone in her body that's even capable of shame but it's utterly delicious that she has. Always so full of surprises.

  
‘Is that any way to talk to your High Priest?’ he's just contemplating the efficacy of a time-stopping spell so he can have her right here before his class starts when he hears the rumblings of students in the corridor and groans. Still bubbling with ill-concealed rage, Zelda ties the scarf around her neck again in a defiant motion.

  
‘I know your fingers are very clever, Faustus, but by Lucifer's hand if you don't fix this by the end of the day, you'll be back in that lonely big house of yours with only them for company and I'm not sure how much you'll enjoy that' her face is deadly serious as she stabs a fingertip into his chest and stalks out of the classroom, breezing past the waiting students.

  
He's initially amused by her attempt at sexual politics. As though he couldn't have any witch or warlock in the coven if he wanted them. And it's undoubtedly foolish of her to assume that she's the only place he's getting his pleasure at the moment (she is, as it happens, but it's foolish of her to assume). As the day progresses, however, he becomes increasingly irritated. The implication that she would find it as easy as pie to get along without him rankles, he can't deny it. And while he finds her fury arousing, Faustus isn't sure how he feels about her impudence. He'd always enjoyed Zelda's healthy respect for his office a little more than he probably should have, he'd hate to think it was waning. As a consequence, he's more than a little cross himself when a red-haired head appears around his door at the end of the day.

  
‘Ah, Lysistrata’ he grumbles, beckoning her to him. Zelda is visibly calmer now, her breathing is regular and she even smiles wryly at his jibe. Faustus makes a show of paying her no attention, studying various papers on his desk and not looking up at her again until she's perched on the edge of his desk in apparently patient silence. When he does look up again, she meets his eyes with a pleading expression and, despite himself, he smiles. Evidently she's chosen to change her strategy and thinks playing the biddable supplicant will work with him. Well, if that's the game she wants to start, he's more than happy to oblige.

  
‘Was there something you wanted?’ if she's going to play the pleading submissive, he's going to make her play it well.

  
‘Faustus...’ her voice is a low purr with which he's very familiar; it's her go-to trick to get him to do something, a coating of honey to make him think she's the one doing him a favour even when the exact opposite is true. He could drag it out, make her beg and barter, but he's been wanting her all day and there seems to be no need to delay the inevitable.

  
Smirking, he leans in and presses an uncharacteristically gentle kiss to her neck. When he steps back, that pretty throat is as creamy white as if he'd never touched it. Zelda sighs her thanks and he notes again how incredibly stimulating it is to have her even slightly at his mercy. His hand skims over the curve of her hip as he sits back in his chair and Faustus is a little surprised when she doesn't make a move to follow him. He's even more so when her face suddenly changes and she fixes her piercing gaze on him with narrowed eyes but there's no time to dwell on it before his mind lurches somewhere else entirely.

  
Images flash through his brain completely unbidden by him, some dredged up from his memory, some conjured as if from nowhere; Zelda spread out beneath him, wet and pliant and begging him to touch her; a spell binding his hands above his head as Zelda, gloriously naked, rode him for her own pleasure; Zelda flushed and writhing, making inhuman sounds of ecstasy as he decorated her bare back with lash after lash; a flash of black lace as she slid into her pew at Black Mass that had him hard for half the service; red hair spilled over his thighs as he sat in his chair and she took her place between his legs; Zelda touching herself on satin sheets, one hand roaming over creamy skin as the other pumped her fingers in and out of her cunt as she moaned his name- and there, somehow, he’s coming, hard and messy and it seems to go on for eternity before his eyes blink open and he's back in his study, panting in his chair with a slight headache and uncomfortably sticky thighs. Zelda is still sitting on his desk, examining her nails with an exaggeratedly bored expression and not a hair out of place. She obviously hadn't even touched him.

  
‘What in the name of sweet fucking Satan was that?’ he spits out and he means to sound commanding, or at least suitably angry, but that's hard to do when a psychopathic witch has your dignity in the palm of her hand and you're still recovering from an orgasm you'd had no intention of having.

  
‘Well, what do you think it was, Faustus?’ she says as though talking to a rather stupid child and he feels the flame of irritation rare right up again. ‘It was incredibly interesting, actually, I wasn't sure what would happen but I'm rather pleased with the results.’

  
‘Do you really mean to tell me that you just experimented on me with a spell you've never used before? You could have killed me!’ he sounds almost petulant to his own ears and that only makes him angrier.

  
‘By Lucifer, Faustus, must you be so dramatic?’ She's enjoying this far too much, he can tell, relishing what a mess she's made of him. ‘It's a harmless little tele-adjustment spell, the worst thing that could have happened would have been that you might have started seeing in the fifth dimension for a while. I'm an excellent witch, or had you forgotten?’ he narrows his eyes and begins a retort but she continues on regardless.

  
‘Besides, even if it had been dangerous, don't pretend it isn't the appropriate way you could have gone out; in death as you were in life, as they say' Faustus certainly can't argue with that but he doesn't know what's gotten into her. If he'd been surprised at her angry remarks before, he's stunned by her self-satisfied monologuing now. She hasn't spoken to him like this since he put on his High Priest robes for the first time and he's torn between liking and loathing her insolence.

  
‘Very interesting conclusion too. Tell me, was it the visual or aural stimulation on that last one that made you come?’ she sounds like she's conducting an experiment in a fucking alchemy class but his cock still twitches a little beneath his damp garments at the reminder of that particular image. She's obviously delighted with herself, delighted with his discomfort but he'll be thrice damned if he lets Zelda Spellman put him to shame.

  
‘A little of both, I imagine' he snaps as he pushes his chair back and stands, casting a quick spell to change his clothes. She just raises an amused eyebrow and swings herself down from the desk, winding herself round to the other side as she heads towards the door, obviously pleased with the conclusion of her little game. He raises a hand to stop her exit and (somewhat to his surprise) she stills her footfall. ‘Was that, uh... Was that real?’

  
The damnably irritating woman doesn't answer; she just smiles, continues her journey out of the door and leaves behind only a waft of that delicious perfume and a frustrated, infuriated, still slightly damp Faustus Blackwood in her wake.

 


	5. capitulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Ah, Father Blackwood, your timing is impeccable’ her voice is sharper than she usually dares to be with him. She's never quite sure on which side of the line he’s going to come down, whether he’s going to be priest or lover or that heady, terrifying mixture of both, but the unquenchable rage stewing away inside her chest is gradually corroding her ability to care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Huge thanks for all the lovely comments on this story so far!  
> 2\. This is long in comparison with the other chapters, but hopefully still enjoyable.

 

Despite her protestations otherwise, it's not hugely difficult to make Zelda angry. She'd learnt on her mother's knee to strive for constant perfection and she just can't break the habit of hitting the roof when perfection isn't attained, even when she manages not to show it. It isn't something she allows herself to dwell on, knowing that if she spends too much time analysing her parentally-instilled concern with appearances, she'll crack into a million little pieces that even Hilda's sewing skills couldn't stitch back together again. But it's bubbling away constantly under the surface, that desperate, grasping need to be perfect. Or if she can't be perfect, to at least look perfect.

  
She tells herself it's because of the need to keep up appearances that Hilda's retreat makes her want to burn the whole house to the ground. As though her sister's excommunication hadn't cast enough shame on the family to last a lifetime, Hilda seems to have decided to tell the world that she (appropriately enough) couldn't give a damn about it. She's cheerfully broadcasting to all and sundry that, far from rotting away in the absence of the Dark Lord's graces, she's blissfully happy working in that awful mortal shop with that awful mortal man. It sets Zelda's blood boiling to such an extent that one day when her sister is busy at the disgusting shop in question, Zelda slips into the room she now sleeps in (she refuses to call it Hilda's room), unable to resist any longer. Zelda is hoping for a hint, some clue as to how this dusty spare room can possibly be preferable to their bedroom, the bedroom where Hilda really belongs. She doesn't find one.

What she does stumble upon, though, is the beautiful crystal jewellery box that their grandmother had left to Hilda when she died. Frances Spellman had always let her grandchildren play with whatever precious objects they'd happened upon in her armoires full of treasures and Zelda has very fond memories of methodically taking every item of her grandmother's jewellery out of the box and placing it back in perfect order, relishing in both the glamour of the jewels and the neatness of the routine. On seeing the box again, every curve and facet of the crystal so familiar to her, Zelda is struck with an impossibly violent wave of anger. If Hilda is so utterly fucking determined not to act like a Spellman, why on earth should she reap the benefits of being a Spellman? Almost before she knows what she's doing, the jewellery box is lying in glinting shards on the ground and Zelda's palm has been decorated with a deep gash. It hasn't helped. She manages to resist the urge to collapse onto the bed and sob, and fixing the box is as simple as a wave of her hand but more than once in the days that follow, Zelda is sure that she catches Hilda looking at her with a mixture of pity and suspicion she can't stomach.

  
This surplus of emotion isn't limited to the domestic sphere. It's two months since Constance Blackwood's death and the bloody mess that surrounded it, and as well as stealing away the woman's child, Zelda has found herself assuming the vast majority of her duties and responsibilities within the coven ( _one in particular_ , as the nasty voice in her head that sounds remarkably like her mother after a bottle of claret never fails to remind her). Zelda’s number of students at the Unseen Academy has more than doubled and every single one of them is terrified of her. Every ounce of her emotional energy is channelled into either caring for her new child or desperately trying to keep a hold on her old ones, she doesn't have any spare to coddle her students. Still, after making three different adult warlocks cry in the same amount of days, Zelda has to admit that she possibly doesn't have herself together as well as she might hope.

  
This is proved beyond all doubt when, not long after the crying incidents, she's busy taking care of the desecrated church. This had been another of Constance Blackwood's jobs that had fallen along the wayside but after the dust had been left to gather for several weeks, Zelda had taken it upon herself without being asked. It's doubtful that anyone has even noticed but she's not going to allow the Church of Night to fall into even the tiniest modicum of squalor just because nobody ever taught Faustus Blackwood that silver doesn't stay shiny of its own volition. She could use magic, of course, but to her own sincere surprise, the physicality of the tasks does wonders for her mood.

Beautifying corpses aside, Zelda's never been one for practical work; her brain is her biggest asset and she uses it accordingly, leaving the heavy lifting to Ambrose and the housework to Hilda, but she finds a strangely soothing comfort in the polishing of candlesticks and the sweeping of stone floors. This comfort proves flimsy when she stumbles upon a jar of raven's blood ink in the sacristy supply closet and the memory it triggers is impossibly vivid; the first time she'd taught Sabrina how to summon a thunderstorm. Three drops of the viscous dark liquid in tin tub of hot water, a fairly simple spell that her niece had mastered easily and sure enough, the sky had darkened and thunder had rumbled to the joy of everybody in the Spellman house. Sabrina had been so excited, she and Hilda had been so proud- and for the second time in less than a fortnight, Zelda finds herself with a bleeding hand surrounded by broken glass, this time with the added bonus of black, sticky ink ruining her skirt into the bargain. And, of course, because despite centuries of loyal servitude, the Dark Lord is just not on Zelda's side, that's when footsteps start to sound on the hard stone flagstones in the entryway.

  
‘Ah, Father Blackwood, your timing is _impeccable_ ’ her voice is sharper than she usually dares to be with him. She's never quite sure on which side of the line he’s going to come down, whether he’s going to be priest or lover or that heady, terrifying mixture of both, but the unquenchable rage stewing away inside her chest is gradually corroding her ability to care.

  
‘Forgive me, Sister Spellman, I'd been labouring under the delusion that I was free to come and go as I please in my own church' the priest, then. Very proper, considering the last time she saw him, they’d begun their usual penitent routine, Zelda on her knees in her bedroom as he put the lash to her back but he’d barely managed ten strokes before coming to his own knees and sliding into her without preamble.

  
It’s happened all too frequently recently. What had been rigorous Satanic punishment laced with sexual reward has spiralled into something torrid that she can’t even truthfully call a love affair. Oh, they still punish each other; clawing hands, vicious kisses, torturous denial. But it’s less formal, less determined, less premeditated, the exact opposite of what it should be. Zelda knows that in the last few months, she should have run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. If having the man’s secret child living in her attic weren’t dangerous enough, her trust in Faustus as a religious figurehead is evaporating day by day. She’s always been aware that he’s too vain, too selfishly ambitious to be a truly great leader but nowadays it seems that vanity has overridden his better qualities, and it’s so scarily fraught with complication. But like a poet in an opium den, she’s too addicted to the reward to focus on the risk.

  
As he walks towards her, she feels almost drunk on the possibility of what he might do but when he takes her bleeding hand in his own, Zelda internally rolls her eyes. She can’t think of anything more exhausting than Faustus playing the concerned patriarch. So she’s unspeakably grateful when he says nothing, merely strokes his thumb over the cut until it disappears. There’s no circumstance on earth in which she would need him to take care of her but if it makes him feel powerful, gets her any closer to satisfying her craving, she’ll let him.

  
‘I didn’t realise you’d adopted such a perilous occupation’ his thumb is still circling her palm as he glances around at her domestic handiwork. In Satan’s name, this is not what she wants to talk about.

  
‘Nobody else seemed inclined to do so. In fact, I’ve been thinking of redecorating. Perhaps a sign above the door- “abandon hope all ye who enter here”’ Zelda can hear her own voice as though it’s coming from somewhere else entirely, out of her control. Faustus looks equally startled, as much as he ever does, and his hold on her hand tightens just a little.

  
‘Quoting heretical texts in the house of Lucifer, Zelda? I won’t tolerate blasphemy, you know.’ His voice is soft and predatory, and if Zelda had been a very different woman in a very different position, she might have swooned. They’re in the middle of the Church, she’s covered in sticky black ink and surrounded by shattered glass, the rage is still coursing through her veins and she probably looks like a wild thing but Zelda prays to Satan that he can forget all that and just give her what she’s aching for.

  
‘Can you possibly forgive me?’ she says quietly and if there’s a part of her that isn’t speaking to him, this really isn’t the time to dwell on it.

  
‘That depends on what penance you’re prepared to do’ he’s still speaking low and rough, and Zelda feels that familiar swoop of arousal in her stomach. Hilda’s betrayal fades into nothing, Sabrina’s self-sufficiency is a distant memory, Zelda just wants to lose herself in this. She should probably be worried about how easy it is to utterly submerge herself in him, but her mind is too occupied with lust to leave any room for concern.

  
‘Whatever you think is fitting, your Excellency’ how quickly the fury inside her has turned into want; just as frantic and desperate, but far easier to quell.

  
‘The Dark Lord and I are both very fond of seeing you on your knees’ Faustus’s hand is still firmly encircling her wrist and if she’d had the slightest inclination to turn on her heel and run, the intensity of his gaze would have kept her pinned to the spot. ‘Or perhaps I ought to open up that pretty back again. Although perhaps that would be too much pleasure, not enough punishment. I seem to recall you dripping down your thighs the last time I tried to teach you such a lesson. Such a shame that your failures still require correcting’.

  
‘Then show me how to improve’ she murmurs, daring to press herself up against him, for once unafraid to show him that she really does want. The fear of rejection has slipped into second place, nowhere near as important as the possible reward of being transported to that wonderful, mindless plane of existence where every touch feels like absolution. Rapturous gratitude overcomes her when he doesn’t question any further but pulls her flush against him, meeting her eager mouth in a hungry, devouring kiss. Zelda loses herself in it completely, only breaking away to moan with satisfaction when his hand slips under the material of her ruined skirt to rub deliciously at the wet heat there.

  
‘Sweet Satan, Zelda, you’re soaked’ the smugness in his voice is equal parts so insufferable and arousing that her only recourse is to sink her teeth into her neck but, true to form, it only seems to spur him on. ‘Practically purring for me, aren't you, sweetheart? Is this what you're thinking about in Mass, when you sit there with your head bent over your prayer book? Pretending to be such a devoted supplicant, when actually you're consumed with thinking about my fingers in your cunt?’ Despite her very best efforts- and she really, truly does try- Zelda whimpers, legs quaking, and he seems to take that as assent.  
‘You really are a sacrilegious harlot' he sounds far, far too pleased with himself but she can barely focus on his words or his tone, just preoccupied with the too slow movement of his hand. She’s well aware of what works on him, what buttons to push to make him speed up this process; Zelda is often too proud to give it to him (regardless of how much she might want to), but desperate times undoubtedly call for desperate measures.

  
‘Please, your Excellency, I need...’ her stratagem works well enough that she can’t even finish her sentence, just mewling instead when the pad of his thumb presses harder on that swollen bud he’s been too-gently circling.

  
‘You really do need this, don’t you, Zelda? Praise Lucifer, you’re here in the presence of the Dark Lord, taking refuge in his most sacred of sanctuaries and all you can think about is getting fucked. I should have you excommunicated’ his words make her whine, but her objections are overshadowed by the fact that it’s at least partially true. She wouldn’t be half as interested in what he’s doing to her, in him at all, if he wasn’t her High Priest and she wasn’t leaning against the Church’s altar while he teases her with his fingers, if she didn’t know that he could make good on his words if he really had the desire to do so. He still doesn’t give her what he wants, though. Instead, he draws his hand away completely and Zelda looks up at him with an entirely inappropriate level of hatred for a disciple looking at her priest. Faustus’s own face is practically a mask now, would be displaying nothing but the barest hint of amusement if it weren’t for the fire alight in his eyes.

  
‘Unbutton that pretty shirt, Zelda’ oh, Satan below. It comes more naturally than breathing and without even thinking about it, her hands obey his instructions and shakily unfasten the buttons of her blouse.

  
‘Good girl’ he says smoothly and Zelda thinks she might faint. Maybe it’s just muscle memory but the instant those words fall from his lips, her legs part just a little and she has to fight her body quite hard to stop it from turning slightly to rock her hips into the solid wood of the altar. The sharp edge there would do such wonders for relieving some of the pressure he seems determined to build up inside her, certainly, but it’s the idea of fucking herself on the unholy table of the Dark Lord that sends a wave of shivering heat through her body. Faustus must feel the tremor that runs through her as he moves his hands to run over the sides of her ribcage down to her hips and over the curve of her backside. His touch is light, almost exploratory as though he hasn’t known every inch of her body by heart for over a century. Zelda can feel the scrape of his nails as he pulls the fabric of her skirt up to bunch around her waist and another surge of shaky arousal takes her over as she realises that the High Priest of the Church of Night really is going to fuck her in the middle of the church with no hesitation.

  
‘Is this what you wanted, Sister Spellman?’ He manoeuvres her around so her lower back hits that solid wood with a thud and Zelda is finding it very difficult to get a sufficient supply of air into her lungs.

  
‘Yes, your Excellency’ she sounds like a breathless schoolgirl, she knows, but losing face is the price she has to pay for relinquishing the death grip of control that has her body and mind at breaking point. And Zelda’s always been excellent at striking a bargain. She’s lucky that Faustus’s personal proclivities line up so well with her need to yield herself. When she uses his title, any of his titles, it always drags him further to the edge and today is no exception. His nails were already digging into the tender flesh of her hips but when she speaks they sink in even further, his head bending so he can bite, hard, at her earlobe.

  
‘Tell me, Zelda, how often have you thought about this?’ his hands move down to discard her underwear as he speaks and she’s so choked with anticipation that focusing on his words requires an impossible level of concentration. Focusing on anything at all requires an almost impossible level of concentration so she’s deliciously surprised when she can feel him pressing against her cunt, deliciously frustrated when he doesn’t move any further.

  
‘I said, tell me’ it’s shallow but she always finds the timbre of his voice arousing; even more so now when it’s rasping against her ear, strict and commanding.

  
‘All the time, I... every time I’m at Mass, your Worship’ praise Satan, she sounds so ruined. It isn’t even strictly true; Zelda might be dangerously near to falling into the abyss that is Faustus Blackwood but it hasn’t quite come close to overpowering her devotion to his master. Her words get her what she wants, though, and he pushes into her with a movement that makes Zelda gasp. He starts to move inside her, his grasp on her hips is bruising and it feels so perfect, all she can do is scrabble at his still-clothed back, the Dark Lord’s name falling from her lips increasingly frequently and loudly.

  
‘So devoted, aren’t you, Zelda?’ how his voice sounds nothing more than slightly ragged is absolutely beyond her. His rhythm is hard and fast, the sound of their flesh connecting mingles with the frankly wanton noises she’s making and simultaneously it vaguely occurs to her both that they shouldn’t be making this much noise and that he seems to be expecting an answer.

  
‘His pleasure is my pleasure, Father Blackwood’ she manages to gasp out, struggling to keep her eyes from fluttering shut as her nails clutch even harder into his shoulder. Faustus laughs at that, dark and sardonic, and Zelda has to admit that if he wasn’t already fucking her into a blissful oblivion, that disparaging laugh would have been enough to flood her with need.

  
‘Yes, I can tell’ he says contemptuously, and in Zelda’s opinion he sounds far too composed for someone who’s currently making her feel like she’s teetering on the edge of a bottomless cavern of the most sinful kind of pleasure. In retaliation, she pulls the fabric of his shirt to the side without a care and leans up to bite down hard on the place where she can feel his pulse beating. With a snarl, his hips snap forward, breaking his rhythm and Zelda feels a victorious surge of satisfaction. She might want him to utterly ruin her, distract her with dangerously intoxicating pleasure, but that doesn’t mean she can’t take him down with her. It seems to work; the only sounds he makes are animalistic and incoherent until she’s coming, one hand tugging brutally hard at his hair as the other rubs hard circles between her legs. Concentrating on anything other than the ecstasy she’s feeling is almost impossible but Zelda’s fairly certain she hears him mutter another utterance of praise against the side of her head as her cunt clenches tight around him. Her head flops backwards and the next thing she’s fully aware of as more than a pleasing sensation is more than a minute later when Faustus pulls out of and away from her and she has to bite her own lip to stem the escape of a very undignified whine.

  
It takes a moment or two for what just occurred to really sink in. Zelda doesn’t quite jump up from the altar like she’s been branded but her movement isn’t too far off. When she raises her head to look up at the High Priest, she finds him watching her with something in his eyes she doesn’t have the inclination to decipher.

  
‘For future reference’ she says dryly, hands only slightly shaky as they move to refasten the buttons he’d ordered her to open ‘The threat of excommunication is not the way to get what you want from me.’

  
‘How interesting, I wasn’t aware that was about what I wanted’ he still sounds nothing more than slightly amused but (true as it is) Zelda doesn’t really care for his implication. But before she can either protest or, more likely, sweep out with what’s left of her dignity, he’s pulled her back to him by the waist and has his head buried in the mess of her hair, face pressed against her neck. She shouldn’t be feeling the familiar, treacherous tug of lust so soon after she should have been sated but there it is nonetheless. Expressions of post-coital affection from him are terrifying and exciting in equal measure. It's indicative of their entire relationship, really; letting him get close is much too dangerous for comfort but it stirs something inside her every time he tries. ‘But it's delightful to know that future reference will be necessary.’

  
Zelda doesn't quite know what to say to that. According to all reasonable logic, future reference should absolutely not be necessary. She's never had any moral qualms about sex but in current circumstances, there are far more reasons than usual to keep her legs closed, more reasons than there are graves in the cemetery. But while this dangerous man still has the will and the capacity to make her forget the wretchedness that's threatening to overtake her at every turn, running away is simply not within her power.

 

 

 


End file.
